


Abstain

by Amymel86



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: -shrugs-, Cum Play, F/M, Masturbation, Modern AU, Priest!Jon, Smut, am I going to hell for this?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-17
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-13 01:00:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29518461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amymel86/pseuds/Amymel86
Summary: Her hair is the colour of temptation. Father Jon tries to ignore it.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 123





	Abstain

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo.... this one shot was originally going to be part of an A-Z of one shots I was working on but as I came up with more and more ideas for the letters, there turned out to be about 3 or 4 ideas that really took my interest in terms of longer fics so I've decided to change my focus to those instead. This one would have been 'A is for Abstain'...

Long Lake Village cannot boast of much. One small convenience store that doubles as the post office in the mornings, one pub for locals, a small school and one quaint chapel. In truth, to most, Long Lake is one of those places that one drives through on your way to any number of much more exciting destinations.

And Father Jon is more content with that then perhaps he once was as a younger, greener priest now that he’s settled into guiding his modest flock of parishioners.

It’s a spring day when she first arrives. Carried in on the chilly breeze that tempers the sun’s glow. Daffodils are sprouting up in the grove around his church’s weirwood tree. Her dress is a robin’s egg blue, a soft buttercream cardigan is draped across her forearm. Jon remembers thinking she’d better benefit from it if she’d put it on. Perhaps those two little peaks wouldn’t strain through the thin fabric of her dress at her chest and gooseflesh wouldn’t dapple the skin of her arms. Her hair is the colour of temptation. Father Jon tries to ignore it.

She introduces herself, all smiling lips and forget-me-not blue eyes. Moving here to open a B&B, she thinks Long Lake deserves more visitors; tourist, artists, ramblers, hikers, photographers. All these people she plans to draw in. People are missing out on this place’s beauty.

 _Sansa._ Her name is Sansa. It sounds like a song. It sounds like a prayer.

She visits often now, in her floaty dresses and her soaked-in-sin skin. _It’s because she’s pretty,_ he tells himself. _Just because she’s pretty._

_Pretty, like a meadow of buttercups and corncockles._

Though, meadow flowers have never made him feel like this.

How is he to guide his flock away from life’s sins when he has all manner of them running through his licentious mind when it comes to Miss Stark?

And she sits there, third pew from the front while he gives his sermons. Sweet as sugar, while all he can think is what it might feel like to glide his tongue over the silk-soft skin of her inner thigh. Would she whimper out his name? Bury her fingers in his hair? Raise her hips and beg? Beg him to-

He must not dwell on it. The more he entertains his imaginings, the more tempted he will be to take himself in hand that night. Fisting his cock to thoughts of one of his parishioners is not something that Jon wishes to repent for. He will abstain from this sin. He will abstain from her.

“Father Jon?” She finds him when he’d bid his flock a good day, what little numbers that had shown up, filtering out the chapel door. Her hand is on his arm. His white collar feels extra tight. But when Sansa smiles demurely at him and tucks some of that autumn fire hair behind her ear, Jon can barely feel the Old Gods breathing down the back of his neck. “I... I wondered if-“

She’s chewing on her lip and it’s almost more than he can take. Jon nods encouragingly.

“Would you be available to hear my confession?” She’s all swinging hips and doe eyes. “It’s just... I’ve been terribly lonely since moving here and I-... is there anywhere private that we could talk?”

The Gods are mocking him

***

Two weeks later...

“No,” he curls his hand around her bare ankle, removes her foot from where it had been creeping up, up, up his clothed thigh. Jon licks his lips. Miss Stark is sat on his desk, legs wide to accommodate where he sits between them in his chair, ready to hear today’s confession. This is how it is between them now. She pouts and Jon would like nothing so dear as to kiss that expression clean from her pretty face. But he won’t.

He will abstain.

For as long as he possibly can.

“No touching,” he reminds her, looking up into those beautiful half lidded eyes. “Now, tell me, sweetheart,” he says, unbuckling his belt, “tell me what your sinful thoughts from last night were about.”

“ _You_.”

“What about me?”

“You... you... it was _your_ hand, not mine. Your fingers. And... you were... you had your mouth on my... you were sucking my nipples.”

Jon’s eyes slide down the elegant slope of her neck, along the contours of her collarbone and to her chest. When he speaks, he hardly recognises his own voice. It is low and commanding. He does not miss the way it makes Sansa shiver to hear him that way. “Show them to me,” he tells her, gaze flicking up from her breasts, back to her eyes. She does as he asks and once again Jon is struck with the realisation that Miss Stark has been sent to him by the Gods – as reward, temptation or punishment he does not yet know. He makes an involuntary rumbling noise from his chest and swipes his tongue over his lips as he undoes the fly of his trousers. “Show me what I was doing, with my hand – my fingers – in these thoughts of yours, sweetheart. I want to see.”

Her feet rest on each arm of his desk chair at either side of him, pert little bottom perched where he normally puts pen to paper. She wears no bra, breasts bare, dress unbuttoned to the waist. Her lavender underwear is pale and delicate – and much too in the way. He can see the jerk and stroke of her movements. Knuckles stretching the fabric, undulating in slow circles as she watches him, his own hardness now in his hand. He reaches forward, finger hooking into her panties to pull them aside. He brushes the back of her hand as she works herself over – but it’s just a hand, he shakes so many in just one day. And he’s not touching her. Only watching. Just like she’s watching him as his hand leisurely strokes at his own length.

“Jon,” she whines and _the Gods be damned_ , his name has never sounded as sinful.

“What else?” he asks, feeling a fire low, low, low in his belly. “What else do you imagine me doing?” Her teats are the same shade of pink as the summer roses in the prayer garden. He wants to suckle on them like an un-anointed babe.

Miss Stark’s fingers move faster. They glisten with her arousal. “You...” She reclines, her hips now flush with the worn walnut of his desk, feet off his chair and legs pushed back and wide. Jon follows, tucking himself even further under his desk. “You put your mouth between my legs, Father. You put your tongue everywhere. You lap at me like you can’t get enough of my taste.”

Jon allows a groan to escape and lowers his head. Closer, closer – he wants exactly what it is that Miss Stark describes; to drown in her taste. His own hand moves in time with hers, picking up speed now. Leaning his cheek against the silk-soft inside of her thigh, he’s close enough to inhale her scent – but not touching her there – never touching her there. He will abstain. He will.

He fists his cock faster.

When she breaks with his name wrapped up in a moan, Jon stands abruptly, desk chair wheeling away and crashing into the wall behind him. He grunts, making a mess of her – that place that he will not touch. She’s covered in his sin. And he – he can’t stop looking at it – at her. Slowly, tentatively, Jon glides his still hard length along her, rubbing his stickiness into her tender, intimate flesh. A soft gasp escapes Sansa’s blossom pink lips and he finds her eyes to check – check that this is alright – that they might tell the Old Gods that he no longer serves them anymore. He serves her now.

As if she knows, Sansa nods. “ _More_ ,” she whispers, cradling his face and bringing him down to claim the devotion of his lips for her own as he slips inside her soft, wet, warmth.

Jon will come to learn, to ask himself to abstain from her, is asking the impossible.


End file.
